


Finding perspectives

by Lost_in_thoughts



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Language, Father Figures, Gen, Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 17:51:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20821388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_in_thoughts/pseuds/Lost_in_thoughts
Summary: A short piece about Lambert's youth in Kaer Morhen.





	Finding perspectives

**Author's Note:**

> While talking about headcanons with the lovely akhuna, I came up with a certain idea and turned it into a oneshot. Akhuna also betaread this piece, so there's a big shoutout to you!

Lambert wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve, put the pitchfork in the corner and looked around the stables.

_Clean enough._

Bartosz, one of the alchemy teachers at the Kaer, and the reason he had to clean out the stables this evening, would find something to bitch about anyway. He always did.

As he stepped into the yard, he grinned. The moon was just about to rise, so the older witchers couldn‘t send him to bed yet. Not that he liked to spend time with them in the great hall, but he would get a mug of beer, or even two, if someone felt generous. If he was lucky enough, he could even manage to sneak into the kitchen and nick a neat portion of White Gull.

He hated the stupid rule that you were only allowed to drink White Gull once you had finished the Trial of the Medallion. If you managed to survive the Trial of the Grasses, a light hallucinogen wouldn‘t kill you.

Luckily, he was a quick learner when it came to sidestep certain rules in the Kaer. Besides, sneaking into the kitchen wasn‘t that difficult. His father had taught him to move quickly and quietly; the mutations had done the rest.

He cast a quick glance to the closed door of the great hall as he went down the corridor to the kitchen. He tried the handle – open. A content smirk on his face, he walked into the room. Thanks to the mutations, he didn‘t need to light a candle anymore to see properly. As he found the glass decanter that was used for brewing White Gull empty on the worktop, he sighed. Well, one couldn‘t always be lucky.

Ruffling his hair, he went back to the great hall, opened the old door with as little creaking as possible, pushed himself in and leant against the oaken door leaf. This was his eighth year in the castle, but the great hall still impressed him. The huge metal chandeliers wrought in the Kaer‘s forge hanging over equally huge tables and benches were bigger than the house he had spent the first years of his life.

The walls were in large parts covered in tapestries the witchers had brought from the path; they helped keeping the warmth in the room. The empty parts of the walls were painted with portraits of some previous leaders of the school like Barmin and Rennes. Next to them was a depiction of the famous witcher George fighting a dragon. There was also a painting Lambert particularly liked, a witcher defending townsfolk against a pair of wyverns. The people looked at him in awe. Lambert liked the idea that people would respect him for killing monsters once he would be on the path. The older witchers always said that humans got worse and worse, underpaying the witchers they hired and sometimes even making rude remarks against them, but he was clinging to the hope that it would be different in his case. The tortures he had endured so far couldn‘t have been absolutely in vain. The destiny that had brought him here couldn‘t be _that _cruel.

He shook his head and focused on the present again. The witchers in the hall hadn‘t noticed him yet. Or they didn‘t want to. Lambert couldn‘t tell for sure. He didn‘t have many friends in the castle, rebelliousness and sarcasm weren‘t features well liked among his brethren. And from the few friends he had made over the years in this shithole, most had died during the Grasses. From his group, only he and Voltehre had survived. Lambert sighed.

_Get your shit together._

He let his gaze wander over to Eskel, one of the older witchers, who had just come back from the path to spend the winter here. Over the next months, he would give theory lessons and help taking care of the animals in the keep. Lambert liked him. He was always nice to the younger witchers and never overdrew the lectures. The strange thing about him, though, was that he seemed so damn comfortable being a witcher. How could anybody in the world be alright with being turned into a mutated monster slayer?

Next to him sat Geralt, Eskels best friend since childhood and one of the most famous witchers from the Kaer. Not only did he survive a few experimental additional mutations which had left him with a loss of pigments, thus giving him his nickname „White Wolf“, but he always managed to tell stories in a way that even killing a pack of drowners sounded like a great adventure. A bunch of older adepts who were preparing for the Trial of the Medallion sat across them and listened to Eskel telling a story about a siren contract he had accepted in Vole.

On the next bench Lambert spotted Bartosz and Aldon, another of the alchemy teachers, who had a similar dislike for him as his colleague. Judging from their glazed eyes and the way they chuckled, they were already completely shit-faced. Lambert smirked and looked over to the fireplace. On the bench next to it he spotted Vesemir, a carving iron in his hand, a piece of wood in his left. Three younger witchers shared the bench with him.

Lambert pondered, ruffled his hair again, straightened himself and went to the fireplace, his head held up high. He ignored the looks of the other witchers as he took an empty mug, filled with it beer from the pot standing on the table and took the seat next to Vesemir.

The old witcher looked up. "Have you eaten yet?“

Lambert rolled his eyes. "I‘m not stupid, old man. If you‘re late for dinner, you only get the remnants.“

One of the other witchers on the table, Miro, sighed. "For fucks sake, calm down, Lambert. Vesemir just asked.“

"I would appreciate it if you could watch your language,“ Vesemir said sharply.

Lambert couldn‘t suppress a grin. His mentor gave him a stern look. "Apart from the excessive use of swearwords, Miro is right. Your hostile behaviour is tiring.“

Instead of answering, Lambert took a sip of beer and stared into the fire.

For the next hour, he stayed silent, watching Vesemir working on his wooden figure and from time to time glancing over at Miro playing dice poker with Arnaud, a witcher who had just ended his first year on the path.

"You want to try it yourself?“ Vesemir asked, a friendly look on his face.

Lambert frowned. "Try what?“

"Carving,“ Vesemir handed him the figure.

Lambert took the figure and pondered, but as he saw Miro letting his dice sink and eyeing him, he snorted and shook his head. "This shit‘s even more boring than your lessons on alghouls.“

Miro grinned before he continued his game.

Vesemir sighed. "If you think so.“ Shaking his head, he proceeded carving. Lambert glanced at the figure. It looked like a tower from a chess game. He knew that Vesemir liked to play chess in his spare time. He had also taught it to a lot of the other witchers so he had partners to play regularly.

Watching his mentor working on the figure, putting precise cuts and sanding the material, relaxed him. After he had emptied his beer, he took a look around the great hall. Although some witchers had already left, it had become louder. But that was always the case once the witchers had reached a certain level of intoxication. He rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day.

"You should go to bed, Adon‘s responsible for your training tomorrow.“ Vesemir remarked, not taking the eyes from his figure.

Lambert grimaced. That meant at least two extra rounds on the Killer, simply because Adon hated him. He looked at Vesemir. "Good night.“

"Good night, Lambert. And don‘t try sneaking out in the middle of the night to practice signs in the yard.“

Without an answer, Lambert left the room.

Over the next weeks, he spend quite a few evenings next to Vesemir, watching him carving. But whenever the older witcher asked him if he wanted to try, the answer was always the same.

_No._

On Midinváerne, the day of the winter solstice, he sat in the library, reading an adventure story Eskel had lent him. While most of the other adepts were spending the free day together in the great hall, Lambert enjoyed the silence in here. As he paused to get a candle, the door was opened with a dreadful squeak. He couldn‘t comprehend how men who were powerful enough to mutate young boys weren‘t able to oil a fucking door. He lit the candle with Igni, looked up and saw Vesemir approaching him.

"Why aren‘t you in the great hall with the others?“

Lambert snorted. "Don‘t think anyone misses me.“

"I wonder why you are always making things as difficult as possible for yourself,“ the old witcher sighed as he put a wooden case on the table.

"What is this?“ Lambert pointed at the box, ignoring the question.

"My carving gear.“

Lambert frowned. "Why do you brought it here?“

Vesemir shrugged. "The older I get, the more my concentration depends on a quiet environment. And it is rather lively today in the great hall.“ He sat down, opened the case and put different knives on the table.

Lambert watched him, not sure how to proceed.

"I hope I don‘t disturb you,“ Vesemir looked at him, the hint of a smile on his lips. "I promise not to talk.“

"Done with the chess figures?“ Lambert asked, ruffling his hair.

Vesemir shook his head. "I need two more pawns.“ He shrugged. „Seems like I won‘t finish the set this year. Unless,“ he darted Lambert a questioning look, "I had someone to help me with.“

Lambert stared at him until Vesemir shook his head. "Don‘t worry, I won‘t bother you with such a boring task on your free day.“ Fetching a small, raw wood block from the case, his mentor took one of the knives and started cutting the wood.

Lambert snorted, went back to his seat and continued reading. After finishing the next page, he looked over to Vesemir and bit his lip. "Which wood do you use?“

"It is important that the wood is completely dry and not too hard. You‘ll rather break your knives than getting a neat figurine from a block of oak. Limewood or maple are recommendable.“

Lambert put his book aside, stood up and went to Vesemir. After a short moment of hesitation, he sat down next to him and watched him. "Who taught you?“

"A friend of mine. We went through the Trials together. His father had been a woodsman.“

Lambert nodded. After a few minutes, he took a deep breath. "Is it hard to learn?“

Vesemir put the wood and the knife aside and looked at Lambert. "A certain sleight of hand is helpful. But I‘m convinced you would learn it rather quickly.“ He smiled at the young witcher. "Do you want to try? The earlier you learn it, the easier it will come to you. And it is a nice way to spend waiting time on the path.“

Lambert scratched his cheek and eyed Vesemir. "You won‘t tell the others if I fail.“

"There is no shame in failing. It means that you tried.“ As Vesemir saw that Lambert rolled his eyes, he handed him one of the bigger knives. "I won‘t tell anybody about it.“

Lambert took the knife, turned it in his hands and nodded. "Alright. A pawn, then.“

Hours later, as Lambert went to bed, he did so with an honest smile on his face. His shoulders hurt and a cut on his right middle finger hurt like hell, but he had made good progress on his first carved figure. The last thought crossing his mind before he fell asleep was that this had been one of the best days in the Kaer.


End file.
